Grieving Nights
by AxCfangirl
Summary: Losing someone you love wounds you deeply. And dealing with the loss becomes more complicated when they were murdered. How you handle the loss, the pain, the anger, and the hatred is different from person to person. Even father and son choose different ways. Post-GSD (partly)
1. Patrick

**WARNING: CHARACTER DEATH**

···

English is not my first language. Please bear with grammatical errors.

And for your information, my fic is based on the remastered version (but I watched the original version, too).

**Disclaimer: I don't own GS/GSD.**

* * *

**Grieving Nights**

* * *

"Understood," Klueze casually said and walked away, heading for his mobile suit to join the battle.

Standing still, Patrick didn't look in the direction. He didn't move, except for his hands clenching into fists.

_"Is it all right if I end up shooting Athrun?"_ The question Klueze had asked before leaving was echoing in his mind.

The answer—affirmative—had left a bitter taste in Patrick's mouth. So bitter that it was almost painful. But he had had no other answer. There had been no other option. They had to protect PLANT. They had to eliminate all the danger to Coordinators, including those traitors. Even if his own son was one of them.

He gritted his teeth and his hands balled into even tighter fists. He remained that way for several moments before turning to his second-in-command. He told the man to supervise the battle for a little while, that Patrick was going to his office to take care of some task but would be back in a minute, before the Genesis fired on its next target: an Earth Forces base on the moon. The man saluted, seemingly finding nothing odd in the Chairman's appearance, and Patrick left the Operation Room.

His office at the Genesis, the room for the top commanding officer, was just down the corridor, and he soon arrived at the empty room. His posture slightly eased, but his mood didn't lighten. Now that he was alone and didn't have to maintain the stoic, unshakable mask of the Chairman, his frustration and distress he had been pushing toward the back of his mind were beginning to bother him, making him restless.

Striding over to a small fridge beside a wall, he opened it, grabbed a bottle of water, and drank it down in a gulp. The unpleasant taste still didn't disappear. On the contrary, it seemed to be slowly spreading from his mouth to other parts of his body, weighing him down little by little.

With irritation, he walked over toward his desk. He banged the desk with his fist, his other fist crushing the empty bottle in it. A photo stand on the desk fell down at the impact, which caught his eyes. He picked it up to stare at it.

He had brought the broken photo stand with a photograph of his wife and son from the Chairman's office in PLANT. He wanted it, a picture of his wife, to be here when this war ended, when he ended this war by exterminating Naturals. It should be here inside a weapon that was going to bring the end to the very people, the very race, that had murdered her. The picture should be a part of it.

Not that this war was only about her. Of course not. He would never confuse business with personal affairs. One of the purposes of this war was revenge, yes. But he wasn't only fulfilling his duty as Lenore's husband and trying to avenge her death. He was doing this for all Coordinators, both the Bloody Valentine victims and those who were still alive. For their sake, he had to wipe out all those stupid, conceited, filthy Naturals so that they couldn't take away anything anymore. Then, and only then, the world would become truly peaceful and people would become able to live happily.

It would still be too late for people who had died in Junius Seven, for his wife. At least, though, he would have achieved bringing peace to his people. That was why he had named this weapon of mass destruction the Genesis because it was going to create a new era, a new world, a world for Coordinators, the only race that should exist in this universe, the only people who deserved to live.

A shocked face of his son flashed across his mind. Then, an accusing, angry one, the one Athrun had had while charging toward him. Those faces were Patrick's last memory of his son. They might become his final memory of Athrun if Klueze succeeded.

The bitterness inside him thickened at the thought. But he willed himself to ignore it. His mind shifted to the last words of Athrun's. The boy had dared to say _he_ was disappointed in _Patrick_ when Athrun was the disappointment. An utter failure. The boy would deserve whatever consequence ZAFT—Patrick—made him face if he did something like turning against ZAFT and PLANT, Patrick told himself. He focused on his anger at his son's choice and stoked it so it would permeate his body and mind, almost blotting out the lingering bitterness. Almost.

_"You don't have to be so tough all the time, Patrick."_

For some reason, Lenore's words suddenly echoed in his head. She had said those words many times. Sometimes gently. Sometimes worriedly. Sometimes sadly.

Another voice followed: _"Father..."_

It was from the time shortly after the Freedom had been stolen, when Patrick had been quite troubled by the failure of Operation Spit Break and the act of treason, both of which had happened in swift succession. Athrun had seemed to sense how distressed Patrick was, and called out to him with concern. Concern that reminded Patrick of his wife.

The same feeling as then filled Patrick, to a higher degree: indignation.

He had been able to tolerate Lenore's concern; he usually had just dismissed it instead of getting angry over it. Although he had still lectured her sometimes, he had not expected her to really understand. She had been a woman.

But Athrun was supposed to be different. The boy should have known better than to speak to his father as if Patrick was someone about whom other people needed to be worried, someone who needed to be comforted, from his own son at that. As if Patrick was weak enough to be treated that way. The boy should have never shown such worry to him and insulted him.

Patrick had never acted in a way that deserved such a treatment in front of his son, in front of anyone. He had not allowed himself to cry for so many years, since he had become old enough to understand how a real man should be. He had not shed a tear even after his wife's death, even when he was alone. Now wasn't the time to be weak. It never was. He had never been a wimp, and he would never be. And he wouldn't let anyone treat him otherwise.

At least, Athrun had corrected his behavior, starting to act in an appropriate way as soon as Patrick showed his disapproval. At that time, the boy had still been obedient and had a clear head, not yet manipulated by his devious ex-fiancé or blinded by his emotional attachment to her.

_Emotions._ Patrick said the word to himself with disgust. How had Athrun been able to allow himself to let his emotions dictate his behavior? Hadn't Patrick taught him better?

Maybe it had been a mistake that he had sent his son, and his wife, to a city in the moon when his son was still little. At that time, it had seemed like the best way. Terrorist attacks targeting important figures in PLANT and their families had been increasing, and he had had to protect his family. But it had resulted in less chances for him to properly educate his son.

Before Athrun's defection, Patrick had had no doubt about his decision almost a decade ago. Athrun had seemed to be well-disciplined, a satisfactory son. Apparently, however, the boy wasn't tough enough or smart enough—good enough. He had failed Patrick in the worst possible way.

Patrick glared at the boy in the photograph. The green eyes—Lenore's eyes—innocently looked back at him. Another wave of anger surged up in him.

Why couldn't Athrun understand the importance of this war, this mission? The boy was his son. Lenore's son. Athrun must be able to understand him more than anyone else could. How in the universe had Athrun been able to abandon this mission in the middle and then, disgrace his parents in such a shameful way on top of that? How could that boy be so foolish and sentimental, so weak?

Patrick had always tried to raise his son as a proper man. A man who could bring honor and pride to his parents. A man who knew right from wrong and always did the right thing. A man who bravely stood up and fought for a rightful cause.

A proper man should follow his orders without letting his emotions get in the way. Athrun had even become a Red Coat and then, a member of the special unit directly working for the National Defense Committee. He should fulfill his duties. Athrun was his son, the Chairman's son. He should live up to people's expectations, Patrick's expectations.

Why couldn't Athrun just do it? Why did his son of all people have to end up being such a loser, not to mention a traitor?

How had Athrun been able to betray his parents, his country, his race for a mere girl? For those dirty, worthless Naturals who had killed his mother? How had Athrun been able to even consider such an outrageous action? Patrick should have never agreed with having his son engaged to that Clyne girl.

He clutched the photo stand tightly. A sharp edge of broken glass cut his finger, but he didn't care.

The photo was a remnant of the beautiful, happy days in the world that was fairly peaceful. His wife had been alive. His lovely, elegant, and gentle Lenore. And his son had been such a good boy who made his father proud: obedient, smart, talented, and refined. Patrick had been able to believe that a bright future was awaiting his family, awaiting him.

This was all those Naturals' fault. They had taken his wife away. They had taken his son away. They had taken hundreds of thousands of lives away. They had taken the peace away. They had taken the happiness away. They had taken the world away. They had taken the future away. They had destroyed everything.

He should have disposed of those barbarians years ago, before they had taken away the light from this world—his world. He should have never believed in such false beliefs that Naturals had some worth and that Coordinators and Naturals could coexist peacefully.

He should have never listened to the sweet words of the man who he had once believed was his friend: Siegel Clyne. Siegel had convinced him that Naturals weren't that different from Coordinators and that there was a way for the two races to live peacefully together. Lenore had also believed so. And Patrick had let himself succumb to such naivete, to such a delusion, even though he should have known better.

He should have never trusted those Clynes, both the father and the daughter. He should have never let them come near his family. They must have always been traitors. He should have seen it from the beginning and removed them, killed them with his own hands if necessary.

Being deceived like that and giving a chance to Naturals had been his biggest mistake, a mistake that had cost him so many things. He wouldn't make the mistake again. Now he knew the truth. He knew what he should do. And he would accomplish it.

Throwing the bottle in his hand into a trash can next to the desk, he pressed a button on the control panel on the desk to turn on the screen on a wall. He then pushed a few other buttons until the screen showed the Earth.

It was the next target of the Genesis after the Earth Forces base. Those Naturals responsible for all the pain and suffering were there. The despicable, lowly species was crawling around on the planet. He had to destroy all of them. Before they destroyed anything else, everything else. He was going to crush them, no matter what—who—the cost was.

For a fraction of a second, he felt like a hand—a very familiar hand—touched his hand still holding the photo stand. But of course, it was just his imagination stemming from fatigue and distress that recently plagued him mostly due to those infuriating traitors called the Clyne faction. The hands were already gone from this universe. Her soothing hands and calming words that had often eased his anger were forever gone.

Then again, he didn't need them now even if she were here. He needed this anger—this burning rage. It was the power that had been driving him since Bloody Valentine, that kept him focused and standing upright in this ruthless storm, that enabled him to push through this tough time, relentlessly fighting back against Naturals, and now the traitors as well, without giving in to the deeply buried agony. The anger had hardened him and turned his heart into steel as he needed it to be in order to burn down all the enemies with this fierce flame that wouldn't be—that he wouldn't let be—quenched until the goal was accomplished.

"War is meaningless if we don't end it with victory." He voiced the belief of his he had repeated hundreds of times, to others and to himself.

Goals were meaningless if you didn't accomplish them. Efforts were meaningless if you didn't obtain success as a result. If you quit halfway through, then you shouldn't have started in the first place.

And he had no intention of letting this war end up meaningless, letting the casualties, the lives of people—the life of _her_—that had been lost because of this fight, end up meaningless.

Putting the photo stand back on his desk, he stared at his wife's face for a long minute, strengthening his resolve. Then he started to shift his eyes away from the photo, but they involuntarily glanced at his son.

The bitterness started to eat at him again, constricting his chest. However, with all his might, he pushed it away, squashed the thought of his son's likely death which he had permitted a skilled soldier to make happen, and all the emotions it stirred up within him.

He wouldn't let them get to him. He wouldn't let anything, not even his son's death, break his will as if he was some weakling who was swayed by emotions and distracted from what he should do, from his duty, by personal affairs.

He was going to fight through this dark time. He was going to bring justice and win the bright future for Coordinators. It was the only thing he could have now: an exceptional achievement as a leader of PLANT, of Coordinators, a victory which would surely be remembered as a brilliant accomplishment by future generation. There was nothing left for him in his personal life. Nothing bright anyway. So, he had to have this success in his public life at least. He was going to have it no matter what.

He wouldn't stop this mission in the middle. He would fight through to the end. He would keep fighting for the right cause no matter who objected him, even if he became the only person who understood what was right.

No matter how great the sacrifices were, he wouldn't give up. He wouldn't be such a weak man. He was a man of his words. He was a man of strength. He was a man of determination. He had always been, and he would always be. Until his last breath.

Feeling as if the flame of anger and hatred inside him was turning him—not only his heart, but his whole existence—into a hard, cold steel, he left his office and headed back to the Operation Room to command the battle that should end the long-standing conflict between Coordinators and Naturals once and for all.

* * *

:


	2. Athrun

:

* * *

"Do you remember how long it is since we..." Cagalli started asking almost leisurely.

It was nearly a whisper. With all the noise around them—people getting in and out of the hospital room, their hastily speaking voices, their hands using one equipment or another, beeping machines—Athrun had to strain his ears to catch the voice, but he caught it. He had no intention of missing it. Not even a word. Not even a sound of her sucking in and out a breath. They were too precious.

"It's thirty-eight years," he answered before his wife ended the question, leaning toward the white bed she was lying down on so that she could hear him better. He didn't want her to speak much, which he was afraid would drain her energy and shorten their time left. "Or forty-eight, if you meant 'since we met.'"

"So many years," she murmured. "Yet feels so short."

His chest tightened at the truth in her words. Unable to respond with words, he squeezed her hand he was holding with both hands. She squeezed back, but it was so weak that his insides—which were already so tight that he had been feeling like there was a heavy steel in his body—constricted even harder. He honestly couldn't breathe for a long minute.

Why did they have to be here? Why did she have to be in such a state? Why hadn't he been able to prevent this? If only he had noticed the danger earlier. If only he had been closer to her. If only his body had been able to move as fast as it once had. Then he might have been able to protect her. He might have been able to take the effect of the bomb in her stead.

He would have fared better. Although he also came in contact with the chemicals destroying her body right at this moment while dragging her away from the gas, they didn't have much effect on him. Nothing he couldn't ignore. It wasn't just because he had been exposed to much less amount than she, but also because his Coordinator body was stronger and more immune to poisons than her Natural body.

Not that he minded it if things didn't go so conveniently for him and he would be dying, as long as it meant she lived. He would give anything to change their positions, to give his life to her. If he were the one on the bed and she were the one sitting on the chair beside it, he might be happily smiling even. Though she would be angry with tears then and he would probably feel sorry and sad. But it would still be infinitely better than what was actually happening.

Yet, he had failed to make things go that way. He had had a chance to save her. He had been standing not very far from her—though it was apparently too far to reach her and shield her with his body in time—when the chemical bomb exploded at her feet while they, along with their daughter, were preparing for a charity event their family was going to host tomorrow on the rooftop of a hotel. But he had ruined the chance. He was an utter failure.

"Stop beating yourself up."

Her voice and her hand pulling his snapped him out of his dark thoughts. Both the voice and the hand were still frail, but all of his senses were highly focused on her, despite his mind riddled with deep regret and self-condemnation.

"You should..." She stopped to take a breath, then continued with clear effort, "You should know better. I know you can...not help it. But...at least promise to try not to blame yourself...too much for this."

He nodded stiffly. "I...I'll try."

To be honest, he wasn't sure how much he could refrain from self-blaming. But making the promise, and making her feel better, was the least he could do for her right now, if not the only thing—the final thing—he could do for her.

The thought almost broke him down, but he somehow managed to keep himself together. _She is still here_, he told himself. He struggled not to think the words coming after that: _For now._

Her body was bravely and desperately fighting the toxic chemicals, but losing. Even though he wasn't a doctor, he could see it. She seemed to be feeling it too. _They_ were losing this battle, the most important battle they had ever fought personally, despite both of them trying to hold onto each other with all their might. He didn't want it. She didn't want it. Nevertheless, the time for them to part ways was ticking down mercilessly.

Looking a little relieved, she breathed in again, then her face contorted. She panted heavily, her hands gripping the sheet and his hand. Each labored breath of hers smashed his heart again and again. He didn't know how much more he could take. He could take this pain millions of millions of times more if it meant that she kept breathing. That she stayed at his side.

Opening, her eyes sought out his. There was a naked, profound terror in them. She was so scared for herself, of what was happening to her. And yet, her lips curved up. Despite her pain, despite her suffering, despite her fear, she smiled. For him. To comfort him. Just as she had long years ago.

His eyes could almost see her teardrops floating in the air. His arms could almost feel her body wriggling in them in surprise. His heart painfully throbbed with the memory of the feeling that had filled him then. His first love.

"You know it'll be fine, don't you?" she said.

A part of him childishly wanted to deny it, wanted to say no, say he couldn't live without her, just so that she might stay longer with him out of worry. But he couldn't lie to her. Nor did he want to burden her with needless worry.

After all, he wasn't the boy who had needed someone to guide him in order to live anymore. The boy who had needed her reprimand in order to choose to live.

So he replied in a shaky voice, "I do. You gave me true strength."

"You always...had it in you," she weakly argued. "You just didn't...know it."

He felt like both smiling and crying. Even being on the edge of death, she was still stubborn, just like the Cagalli he knew, just like the Cagalli he had fell in love with all these years ago.

With a faint smile, she opened her mouth. He knew she was going to call his name by the form of her mouth, or her expression, or maybe simply instinct. He was just so used to it. She had done it so many times. He had heard it so many times.

But the word never came out. Instead, she gasped sharply. Not a second later, the machines around the bed started making loud sounds. He reflexively shot up to his feet. The hospital staff came rushing toward her. Someone shoved him aside. A nurse or a doctor, he didn't see. All he saw, all he could see was her.

Having to step back, he still tried to keep a tight hold of her hand. He couldn't bear letting go of it. _Not yet_, he soundlessly pleaded. _Not just yet._

Even though he had never been a religious person, he still prayed. To Haumea. To stars. To the universe. To any and all gods and goddesses he had ever heard of. For one more day. One more hour. One more minute. One more second, even.

As she had mentioned earlier, they had spent a long time together, almost half a century. They had been married for nearly forty years. But it wasn't enough. It was nowhere near enough.

Someone grabbed his arm and told him to let go of her politely but firmly. He didn't want to, but he had to; he knew it was necessary in order for the hospital staff to treat her.

He begrudgingly released her hand, but didn't take his eyes off her, still attempting to drink in everything about her. He was trying so hard that it was as if there was nothing in the universe but her and him.

Her face writhing. Her mouth gasping for air. Her hands clutching the sheet and her chest. Her body trembling violently. He couldn't miss any of it. Not even one second of it. No matter how much pain watching her like this caused him.

Her body suddenly became still, then, after a few moments, jumped. Her eyelids didn't move. Her body jumped—was made to jump by the equipment on her bare chest—again. Her mouth didn't move. Her body jumped yet once more. Her hands limply went back on the bed and just stayed there.

And he knew.

As if the small world where only he and she existed had been broken, he suddenly started to register things other than her. Someone was saying the time. Someone was touching his shoulder, offering her condolences. Most people in the room were looking at him with sympathetic expressions.

He noticed those things. But he didn't care. He couldn't. He couldn't respond. He stood frozen as the others, both the hospital staff and the bodyguards, left the room, giving him privacy.

Even after all of them were gone, he just stood beside the bed for a long time, staring at her face which looked calm, as if she was only sleeping. Slowly, he reached for her hand. It was still warm and soft, but no longer squeezing his hand back. Her body was here. But she wasn't here anymore.

Something welled up in him. He collapsed on the chair he had occupied while having the final conversation with her, and pressed his forehead to her palm.

He didn't want to see her body, with her spirit gone. It was too much to see. Too much to bear.

His own body felt cold. It was as if there was a hole in his chest and everything inside him was draining out. And yet, he was far from empty. There was so much sadness, so much tears, so much pain.

Too much.

And there was no escape. There was no way he could be free from this suffering, this agony. This universe was such a cruel place. Life was so cruel. It had given him such a precious gift, then ripped her away from him.

"Cagalli," he choked out. Again. And again. And again.

It was the only word he could think of. It was the only word that could express even one hundredth of this heartache eating away at him. It was the only word that could offer him some comfort—no matter how slight it was and even though it came with just as much pain, if not more—in this overwhelming despair. It was the only word that could help him maintain—barely—some sense of balance while he felt like he was spiraling down inside a bottomless pit further and further. It was the only word that could prevent him from losing all senses when nothing seemed to make sense anymore.

The name of light. The name of hope. The name of love. The name of happiness.

And the name of loss.

It was as if the sun was gone from his world. There was no longer the light, the fire, that had protected him and guided him in the darkness. He was left alone, lost and shivering. And his world was shaking and cracking—breaking. _He_ was breaking, into shards, into fragments, into particles, until he didn't know who he was anymore.

"Father..."

It took him a while to process the trembling voice that had reached him through the darkness surrounding him.

As if the voice, and the word, realigned his world, the shattered pieces of him, he started feeling his body again, which was surprisingly still in one piece, remembering where he was—and who he was—and regaining his hold on his senses. Though he wasn't sure how many minutes had passed after Cagalli had drawn her last breath. It felt like only a second and a lifetime all at once.

Still feeling somewhat disoriented, he looked up. His sight was blurred and he couldn't make out what emotions were on the face of his daughter who was standing at the door.

After the explosion, she had been escorted to one of the shelters for the Cabinet members and kept there until the terrorist group that was behind it was captured a little before Cagalli's death. It was the protocol in a situation like this, though his wife had been made an exception due to her severe damage and urgent need to be brought to hospital.

His daughter must have come here as quickly as she could, but still had not been able to make it before her mother left this universe. None of the other family members or Cagalli's friends did. He was the only person who loved Cagalli and had watched her die. A part of him was glad about it; another part hated it.

He wiped his eyes because he wanted to get a better sight of his daughter, not because he was trying to hide from her the fact that he had been crying. He knew he didn't have to.

He was hurt. He was despaired. He was broken. And it was all right. He had just lost his wife. The woman he loved with his whole heart, with his whole existence, and had spent so much of his life with. These reactions were just natural. He didn't have to feel ashamed of being a human.

That was one of the things Cagalli had taught him. She had made him strong—or made him realize he was strong—enough to accept himself just as he was, enough to believe other people, his family and friends at least, would accept him as he was.

Being strong didn't mean not having weaknesses or hiding them perfectly. It meant confronting them and accepting them as a part of you partly so that you could deal with them better.

Being tough didn't mean you didn't cry or let anything break you. It meant that you could get on your feet again and move on after crying. That you could pick up the pieces and fix yourself after breaking. That you believed in your strength, believed that you could be all right again.

He knew that showing weaknesses, letting himself give in to his grief and pain didn't make him fragile or broken beyond repair. That it wouldn't damage anything of him, if not the opposite. And it certainly wouldn't make him worth any less.

You cried and broke because you loved. It was the price of opening yourself up to love, of all the happiness you had had because of that love and lost. And he still didn't regret his love for Cagalli, didn't regret all the prices that he had paid, that he was paying, even in the midst of this torment. What he had had with her had been worth all this anguish. She had been more than worth it. He would never doubt it.

Before he finished wiping away tears, there were running steps. Then, his daughter ran into him, her arms tightly holding him. Her face buried into his neck, she broke out crying, hard.

Fresh tears filling his eyes, he held her back. They clutched onto each other, as if the other person was their lifeline. Her sobs and his own resounded in the room together, which was somewhat comforting. At least, at the very least, he wasn't alone in this suffering. They were together in this.

"I...I wish it were me," she choked out between sobs. His heart ached for his daughter.

It had been reported to him and his wife along with the news of the apprehension of the terrorists that the bomb, the assassination attempt, had originally targeted their daughter who was going to become the Chief Representative—the first Chief Representative ever who was half Coordinator, half Natural—in a few weeks. But the bomb had exploded accidentally, much earlier than the terrorists had planned. It was largely why the terrorist group had been captured so quickly and easily; they had not had the time to hide proofs that led to them, much less flee the country.

It was as if his wife had died to give their daughter a safer future, lessening the danger their daughter had to be protected from. A part of him despised himself for thinking like that, as if his wife's life was just an object that could be easily sacrificed, especially since he knew how much his wife had wanted to live, to spend more time with her loved ones.

However, he also knew what _she_ would say about it, even though they had not thoroughly exchanged their opinions on the matter after the news had been brought to them.

He swallowed hard, bracing himself for what he was going to say, before brushing the tears from his eyes with his hand. Grabbing his daughter's arms and loosening her hold of him, he pulled away a little. His hands then cupped her cheeks to make her properly look at him. He gazed deeply into her tearful eyes.

"Your mother was glad it was her. You know that, right?"

Saying it hurt terribly. But it would hurt him more if he didn't say anything, if he left open even the remotest possibility that his daughter might think he agreed with her. He knew firsthand how deeply such a doubt could cut your heart.

Tears streamed down her face as she looked back at him without words. After a long moment, she whispered, "I do. But—but still..." She closed her mouth and squeezed her eyes shut. Her body was shaking as if trying to endure an unbearable pain inside it.

"I know." He embraced her again, sharing her pain. "I know." He truly did.

As they returned to crying together, a distant memory came to his mind, triggered by what his daughter had said.

After his mother had been killed, he had sometimes wondered—feared—whether his father would be happier if he had died instead of his mother. After his father's death, another thought had started to bother him at times: It might have been better for the entire world if it had been he who had been killed. Then, his father might not have become so obsessed with revenge, or his mother might have been able to stop him, which Athrun had miserably failed.

He had revealed the fear to Cagalli around Valentine's Day a few years after the Second Bloody Valentine War when he was in a particularly low mood.

Her face full of sadness, she had hugged him and said, "I don't know if you are right. I can't tell. But I'm glad it wasn't you. I'm really, really glad you didn't die and met me and you are still here."

Her voice had been filled with tears and her embrace had been exceptionally tight as if she was anchoring him so that he wouldn't drift to the world of the dead.

He had just hugged her back, as tightly. After all, no matter how strong his fear was, he too had been glad that he was alive and with Cagalli and the others he loved and cared about. He had known he couldn't just give up on life even if his suspicion was true. He had had too much he wanted to do with his life, not only for the world and the greater good but for himself just as much, like marrying Cagalli and making a family with her.

If only no one had had to die. If only everyone had been able to peacefully live with people they loved until they died of old age. But it wasn't the world they lived in. His mother had been murdered. His father had been murdered; although Athrun couldn't blame the person who had shot his father in an attempt to stop him especially since the man had been shot by his father first and died himself, it still didn't change the fact that his father had been killed by someone. Athrun had survived. His wife had been murdered. His daughter had survived.

He wasn't happy with the result. He wished he had been able to change it. Nevertheless, it wasn't the worst outcome. He couldn't say it was while holding his daughter's warm and firm body. He couldn't say that as long as there were still his children, people he loved. He couldn't do that to them.

It wasn't easy. It was a lot easier to just fall into the darkness, let the depression take over him, let it convince him that there was no more hope or love in this universe like he had felt earlier before his daughter showed up. But he had to fight it. He had to fight, because he was still alive and to live was to fight as Cagalli had told him many years ago. She had also taught him to cherish his life including people in it.

He pulled his daughter closer, making her sit on his lap and cradling her as if she were still a little girl. He meant to do it to comfort her, but it might be for his own comfort. It didn't matter. They needed each other. Badly. And they had each other.

He had once been afraid that he might become like his father if he lost the woman he loved, if some malicious people took her away from him. That he might become blinded by his grief and rage and unable to see anything but revenge.

The fear had always been deep inside him all these years. But now, it was gone. He knew he was different from his father and would never make the same mistake as his father. He wouldn't try to destroy what his wife had cherished. He wouldn't make his children suffer the way his father had made him. He wouldn't do such a thing to people he loved and cherished. He wouldn't waste his life, which many people besides himself—starting with Cagalli—cherished, on such a hateful act, as if their love and care for him meant nothing to him.

His mind wandered to the thoughts about being strong he had had earlier, and then, to what he had been musing about his father and strength.

While his father was alive, Athrun had always thought his father was a strong man. Several years after his father's death, however, he had begun wondering whether his father had actually been weak, or at least not as strong as he had believed, and whether the weakness was the major factor that had led his father to do such a horrible thing.

The wondering had started maybe partly because it was relieving to think of his father as a weak person rather than a heartless person. But over the years, Athrun had become more and more certain that his suspicion was true as he learned what true strength was like, and that being unable to show your weaknesses and vulnerability was a weakness itself.

His father, though strong in his own way, had not had true strength. He had not been able to accept his weaknesses, allow himself to be vulnerable. Therefore, Athrun suspected, his father had not been able to confront and manage grief properly and had ended up turning it into fuel for anger and hatred probably because it was easier. Letting grief consume you and break you was scary, even if you were fairly certain that you could recover.

And maybe, his father had not known whether he could once he let out all the pent-up emotions, let them take over him. Or maybe he had not known how to release his sadness and pain in any other way. After all, his father had been a firm believer that men shouldn't cry or show their weaknesses. Therefore, anger and hatred might have been the only emotions he could allow himself to show, to feel. Maybe he even had not known how hurt and broken he was inside, and so, had not been able to try to heal himself.

Or maybe he had not known how to heal himself in the first place. Maybe he had been completely dependent on his mother, most certainly without realizing, while she was alive when it came to the task, instead of taking the job of looking after himself, after his emotions, on his own shoulders. Athrun knew from his own experience that people who couldn't deal with their emotions, especially people who believed they shouldn't show them, tended to depend on others to do the job for them.

And that dependency on his mother might have led his father to the behavior that destructed many people including himself, because the only way for his father to stand on his own instead of relying on his mother was leaning on the crutch made of anger and hatred.

Once again, Athrun felt grateful that he had his family and friends who shared his pain and gave him unconditional acceptance and love. That he had learned how to share his emotions with them and turn to them for support when he needed it, how to trust them with his heart, with his whole self including flaws and weaknesses.

As his attention shifted from his father to himself and his current situation, he realized that both he and his daughter had stopped crying at some point. She was still sniffling once in a while, but other than that, the room was quiet. Not wanting to break the sorrowful but somewhat calm silence, he stroked her hair without saying anything.

They remained like that for a while before she said, "I'm angry."

"Me, too," he quietly replied.

Silence came back to stay for about a minute.

"I hate them. I feel like killing all of them with my own hands. I want to avenge Mother." Her voice shook with raw emotions.

"I do, too," he confessed.

A part of him, a large part, was itching to march down to the military headquarters where he had heard the culprits of the attack were in custody and kill them, after torturing them and making them experience the agony his wife had suffered, the agony he and his family were suffering, thousandfold.

"But we can't, can we?" his daughter said with frustration. "They should be put on trial and punished by law. It is how it should be, the right thing."

"It is," he agreed in a low voice.

She let out a sigh, nearly a sob.

"Why is it so hard to do the right thing? Why does this have to be so painful?"

He knew they weren't exactly questions. She wasn't expecting him to answer them. They were just an expression of suffering, of struggle. But he still wanted to give her an answer.

He wished from the bottom of his heart that he had had the answer, that he had been able to explain why this world was the way it was and take away some of her pain, protecting his daughter from the cruel reality which often made absolutely no sense as he used to when she had still been small.

But he couldn't. He was powerless, and helpless; the feelings were maddening, driving him insane. He almost wished he had been able to do what his father had done after all: blaming "the others" for every horrible thing and insist that eliminating all of them was the solution. It would give him a mission to accomplish, which could distract him from his grief and feeling of powerlessness, at the very least. It was quite a tempting idea. But he couldn't do it, either.

So, he focused on his daughter, on holding her and caressing her back with all the comfort he could give. Sometimes, you had to accept that it was the only thing you could do, whether it was enough or not. That you were just one human and couldn't solve all problems, or even just the problems concerning yourself and your loved ones. Just like you had to accept your weaknesses.

His daughter was pressing her face into his shoulder, holding onto him tightly, though she didn't seem to be crying.

Long minutes passed, during which he felt her breathing gradually calm down from panting with strong emotions to more even breaths. Then she exhaled a very long breath as if being exhausted due to fighting a tough battle, which he had no doubt she had been doing internally.

"I still hate them, but I don't want to spread hatred. I don't want such a world." The voice was smaller, but steady.

He closed his eyes, and whispered, "I don't, either,"

Even with his conviction and determination that he wouldn't do the same as his father, it took him some effort to maintain control over his emotions. A cold flame of anger and hatred was burning him from inside as if trying to get his heart frozen. It wouldn't go away soon. Maybe it would never be put off as long as he was alive. Maybe he had to live with it for the rest of his life. But the emotions weren't blinding him. He wasn't letting them.

His daughter's warm body leaning against his chest thawed the coldness inside him to an extent, and there was something else. He was feeling as if a gentle yet strong fire was heating him up from behind and countering the icy burning—as if someone was behind him and hugging him, comforting him and encouraging him. He felt like he was enveloped with warmth, sandwiched between two warm bodies, bodies of people he loved.

He wasn't sure the presence behind him had always been there and he had just realized it or it had just come to him. It didn't matter. It didn't matter, either, whether it was only his imagination. Even if his desire to feel her again was making up the presence—which was the theory he would normally adopt with eagerness, except he was in a different mood right now—this warmth was real, based on everything she had given him, everything they had shared.

Closing his eyes, he tightened his embrace of his daughter in the hope of transmitting the warmth from the fire to her.

_I know what you want_, he voicelessly told the presence behind him—his wife's soul, imaginary or not. _What we have wanted. I can still see what we've been fighting for. I won't lose sight of it. I won't ruin what we achieved with my own hands. I promise._

He didn't say those things out loud so that his daughter could hear. It wasn't necessary. She already knew what she needed to know: how her father, her mother, and her grandfather each had acted in a similar situation, and what kind of consequences each of those actions had resulted in. She also understood what was the right path as she had revealed earlier. Of course, just because you understood that, it didn't necessarily mean you could actually choose it. And it certainly didn't mean doing it didn't require a lot of strength.

But he had complete faith in his daughter.

After a little, she shifted and straightened to face him fully. "I won't kill them," she stated in a firm voice. "And it's not because I shouldn't. It's because I don't want to as much as I do. I don't want to be such a person."

His face softened at the determination overcoming the anger and hatred and shinning brightly in her reddened and swollen eyes. He pressed a kiss to her forehead.

"That's my little lioness."

A small smile appeared on her lips, though it was somewhat wobbly. "You know I'm not little anymore, Father. I even have kids of my own."

"No matter how old you get, no matter what happens, you'll always be my little girl," he told her.

The exchange they had had numerous times before, the familiarity of it, eased his pain slightly and increased it at the same time. He still had his daughter to have this conversation with, but no longer his wife who would chuckle or roll her eyes at them while hearing it.

But his daughter and he needed some resemblance of normalcy, even though the fact was that their world was no longer normal, would never be normal in the way it had been for decades, for his daughter's entire life. That world had been destroyed, taken away from them forever.

Unlike him, his daughter was facing someone she loved being taken away from her in a brutal way, what he had hoped his children would never have to experience, for the first time. Yet, she was handling the situation well, without running away to the easy path.

His chest was filled with sadness, pride, and admiration.

"Your mother would be proud of you. _I_ am proud of you," he said with as much sincerity as he could express.

She teared up again, but gave him a little yet genuine smile. Wiping her eyes, she looked around to find a clock on a wall.

"I have to make an announcement about...Mother soon. And I have to go and talk to my aides about it." Her tone was reluctant but resigned.

"I'll be there with you," he said without hesitation.

She turned her eyes back to him. "Are you sure?"

Looking at the amber eyes squeezed his heart. Not just the color of her eyes, but the way she looked at him with worry and love. The way those eyes were so full of care and compassion even though she was in pain herself. It was exactly how Cagalli had looked at him right before she passed away.

No matter how much his daughter was like her mother, however, she wasn't Cagalli. And she was not and would never be a replacement for Cagalli. He wouldn't reduce her to such a thing, to a tool to fill the void left by the loss of his wife. She was his daughter, his and Cagalli's precious treasure. She had always been and she would always be. It was another promise he made to Cagalli.

He softly smiled at his daughter. The smile was somewhat forced, but still genuine. "I'm not all right," he admitted. "But I will be. We will be."

He wholeheartedly believed that. He was deeply hurt. He was greatly suffering. But he wasn't alone or lost like he had felt before. His daughter had reminded him of that.

There was a hope still shinning inside him, the hope Cagalli had given him. The hope, and the memories of Cagalli, would continue to guide and protect him so that he could get through this dark time.

No matter how dark it was, nights would end and mornings would come always. No matter how devastating the present was, there was always hope for the future. No matter how broken they were now, they would become able to stand up and start moving again. They would probably go back and forth, taking two steps forward and then one step backward, but still keep walking. Both he and his daughter were resilient like that. The rest of the people who loved Cagalli as well.

The hope wouldn't vanish just because Cagalli was no longer by his side or in this universe. His love for her and others like his children, which sprang from inside him instead of someone pouring it into him, was fueling the hope, and forging an anchor.

The knowledge, the realization that he could make his own anchor instead of depending on someone else to give it to him, was one of the best gifts Cagalli had given him. It was the days when he had lived, and fought, together with her that had taught him that he could—and should—save himself. With the help of others, but still by his own hands. He had learned that it was ultimately his own job to take care of himself which included protecting and saving himself, and been trying to do it while accepting help and support from people around him.

Therefore, he could believe in his recovery, and that of his family and friends who shared that knowledge as well.

That he could recover from this loss, however, didn't mean he would return to the same as before. He would never be. The loss was now a part of him; he would always carry the scar and the painful memories the loss was going to cause. But still, he would become all right someday. He would become able to feel genuine joy and happiness, to smile and laugh from the bottom of his heart, again. Even if it seemed like a far future now, the day would surely come.

And Cagalli would be there with him. She would be there in the fire inside him, the fire that she had stirred up and was still burning, urging him to live. He could feel her there. Her warmth, her smile, her brightness, her laughter, her strength. Her love. A part of her was still alive in him, living with him. It always would be. As long as he lived.

And he was going to live as the same Athrun Zala Cagalli had shared her heart and life with, which was one of the best things that had happened to him. He wouldn't stain his past, their past, by becoming someone who didn't deserve such a beautiful thing. He was going to remain Cagalli's husband, and their children's father and their grandchildren's grandfather, no matter how much the anguish broke him and twisted him.

With a wrinkled hand, he stroked the pendant his daughter was wearing, the Haumea's amulet he had given her when it had been decided that she was going to become the next Chief Representative.

"I know I'm not alone," he said, feeling the familiar touch of the red stone which had been a reminder of that fact, a reminder of Cagalli's compassion and forgiveness, when he was devastated, believing he had murdered his childhood friend. "Neither are you."

He no longer needed a solid proof he could touch and hold in his hand in order to believe he wasn't alone, but touching the stone was still comforting. He hoped that the amulet and his words had a similar effect on his daughter as the stone and Cagalli's actions and words had had on him decades ago. His daughter might not need a reminder of all the support she had and comfort she could have whenever she needed and as much as she needed, but it wouldn't hurt to have one.

Her eyes moist once more, she placed her hands over his hand and the pendant. She then rested her head on his shoulder again. He rested his own head against hers.

They stayed that way for several minutes before silently standing up to face the bed. He stroked Cagalli's hair and kissed her lips. His daughter held her mother's hand and kissed her cheek.

Then, they slowly walked out of the room with their arms around each other, starting their long journey of recovery.

* * *

**The End**

* * *

**A/N**: In the note of "Perfect Illusion," I wrote something like I had to write it since I'd written "Water and Land." The relationship between this fic and "Night and Day" is similar, though to a lesser extent. I wrote this fic largely because of what I'd written in "Night and Day."

Also, if you read "Chain of Love" and "My Heart, My Home," you can probably understand Athrun's sentiments in this fic better.

Thank you for reading. If you have written a review for my other fics, thank you for that, too.

* * *

***edited 10/07/19***


End file.
